


Embrace of Darkness

by TheAsexualofSpades



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eldritch, Eldritch Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Protective Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Soft Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Soft Morality | Patton Sanders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:48:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26886139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAsexualofSpades/pseuds/TheAsexualofSpades
Summary: Humans are such...fascinating. And so emotional, aren't they? Unfortunately for Patton, some creatures that don't understand emotions want to...experiment.Humans can be so fragile....and capable of a kind of strength those creatures could only dream of.
Relationships: Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders & Morality | Patton Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders/Morality | Patton Sanders
Comments: 23
Kudos: 145





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to crazed cartoonaddict for the idea!!! I hope it's what you wanted!

**Crazed cartoonaddict prompt -** GNSJGJJSK 😳😳😳 THE ASK SENT ON ITS OWN IM SO SORRY LET ME TRY AGAIN HDFJKDGKK THIS IS EMBARRASSING THE PROMPT WAS THIS: Eldritch au where young human Virgil (16-18) or Patton is running (kinda like (Un)Wanted but different idk) from an unnamed unsympathetic eldritch being (not a side) and gets caught up by ANOTHER eldritch being, this time it IS a side AND sympathetic. This sounds a lot like (Un)Wanted but I couldn’t get out of my head how cool an eldritch au would sound in ur writing style

* * *

“…oh, my pet, you should _not_ have done that.”

The figure in the bonds winces as another bolt of energy hits his chest. He arches his back, suppressing a yelp as it twists, twists, and _pinches._

“St-stop,” he pants, his hair hanging in limp, bedraggled curls around his head, soaked with sweat, “ _stop,_ please.”

“Begging already? Well, I must make a note of that, that was quicker than last time.”

The pain stops. The figure slumps in relief as the shadow moves away. His eyes fall shut, taking advantage of the momentary reprieve he has before it starts again.

How could he have been so _stupid?_

He was told not to mess with Eldritch power, he was told not to go into the restricted section, he was _told_ not to use the Summoning Grounds. And yet, by some stupid decision—arrogance? Curiosity? Or that _stupid_ compassion—he did.

And now…

Now he was here, subject to the whims of a being that did not yet understand the human capacity for emotion and was hell-bent on figuring that out.

The days—weeks? Months? Hours?—they spent on smiling were agony. His cheeks had ached by the end of the first few rounds and his lips had dried and cracked, blood spilling down his chin. Then the being had wanted to count his teeth and had pried his mouth open wider still, holding it agape with some awful magic that tasted of capsaicin. His tongue had begun to bleed too.

If smiling had been agony, then _laughing_ had been torture.

Laughter is a fear response, he remembered having read that somewhere, and only here had he understood that. Something had reached deep into him, into his gut as the being’s hand phased _through_ his stomach and _clenched,_ drawing forth laughs upon laughs upon laughs and oh it had _hurt._ His throat had screamed and his lungs had begged for release.

Now, it appears, they were on to crying.

“You humans,” the being muses as it runs an icy cold finger over his cheek, “so… _squishy._ And soft. You’re absolutely _covered_ in this squishy soft stuff…I wonder how it would feel on my _own_ bones…”

He whimpers in fear but dares not move. The energy that crackles around his bonds, poised to strike, is enough of a deterrent on their own.

“Oh, why so scared, little human,” the being mocks, seizing his chin and forcing his gaze up, “I _did_ promise not to kill you, as you requested.”

He has _never_ regretted anything more than that.

What was he supposed to do? When a being older then time itself and infinitely crueler had appeared in front of him, he’d blurted the first thing that came to his mind. _Please don’t kill me._

Death, it seems, is not a mercy he’ll be granted.

“You stay put,” the being laughs, throwing him back into his bonds, “I’ll be right back. Someone else is summoning me now. Perhaps I’ll have another plaything to add to my collection.”

The figure whimpers again as a rush of cold energy fills the room. Then a void. The being is gone.

He slumps, his breathing haggard, panting for any sort of release. The corners of his _eyes_ hurt, when had the corner of his _eyes_ ever been a source of hurt? The skin feels like it’s been rubbed raw; salt pressed into the wound. His wrists ache, his throat aches, everywhere aches, but all he can feel is the burn at the corners of his eyes.

The light flickers. His head jerks up. Are they—are they back already?

He squints. N-no, no…something…

Something’s wrong.

The energy that holds him still is flickering, not the overhead light. His eyes widen as he tugs experimentally at the binds and finds them…loose.

His heart jumps into his throat. He holds his breath.

It flickers again.

Clenching his jaw tightly, he _yanks._

He almost collapses to the ground, knees wobbling terribly, but he’s _free._ There’s a door. Run, run, _run._

He stumbles over himself, floundering through some mist that tastes of pure darkness until he sees the door and falls through it.

Falling. Falling. He’s falling. It’s dark, it’s so dark…the darkness is _tangible,_ he can feel it pressing in around him, down, down, down, down, he’s being _sucked_ into it, drawn into an uncontrollable vortex with an insatiable hunger. He’s being _eaten._

And as the fear swirls in his gut, as it fills his mind, adrenaline roaring in his ears, as the tips of his fingers go numb, a dark, primal satisfaction burns in some demented corner of his heart because he knows he tastes _good._

The darkness hurts to look at. So he won’t. He shuts his eyes, squeezes them tight, drowns in a familiar darkness, not the scary one, and lets himself fall.

_It’s not the fall that kills you, it’s the sudden stop._

* * *

Something buzzes in the corner of Roman’s mind and he frowns, waving his hand through the mist, through his many limbs stretched across his realm. Is someone here? Has his brother come to visit?

He peers closer, looking through the many threads holding this reality together. Oh. Oh, something’s falling through. He _must_ get his roof fixed. He sighs, reaching out to disintegrate the pesky bit of debris.

Right before he makes contact, he stops. What…what is _that?_

A quick flick of one of his threads slows time, allowing his attention to zoom in and squint at the little thing falling through his reality. Is that…is that a human?

What is a human doing here?

Roman reaches out, concentrates his threads, tangling the human in little golden strings and pulling, pulling slowly, carefully, to lay them delicately at the center. He frowns, looking closer. This human looks…smaller than most. Is it one of the younger ones? It looks independent, at least independent-capable, even though mortal dependency is _not_ one of his strong suits, but then why is it here?

Is it a sacrifice? He’s not had a sacrifice in millennia. And no demands came with it…

The age of sacrifice for appeasement’s sake is long over for mortals. Plus, tormenting little things loses its appeal after a while, wouldn’t you agree?

Roman sighs, resigning himself to figuring out what to do with this little human. It hangs there, tangled up in the golden threads, and looks so terribly, terribly _small._ Are all humans this small? Roman’s quite forgotten.

The buzzing hasn’t stopped. Normally, when the problem has been located, and Roman’s aware of it, it stops. It hasn’t stopped. Is something else wrong?

He feels around a little, just to figure out where it’s coming from, only to discover not only is it still happening, it’s _increased._ And it’s coming from this little thing, tangled up in his threads.

Roman braces himself and _looks._

The threads spin elegantly outwards, creating a small circle plinth in the swirling chaos. The human lies on it gently, still held lightly just to make sure it doesn’t roll off. Roman concentrates, wills the human to show him what’s wrong.

Small golden lights being to glow from directly under the human.

The human twitches on the plinth. The lights’ glow begins to spread along the grooves, working its way outward to the rim of the circle, then back in, each pass growing bright and brighter. The human lets out a small sound. Its hands splay out, fingers digging into the grooves it can reach. Across the circle, Roman closes his eyes, threads twitching softly.

The lights run back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Roman growls low in his throat, focuses.

Back and forth. It hurts to look directly at the stone now.

Roman whines, his threads growing taut.

He reaches out, pulling more threads to hold the reality together around this little human, waving frantically back and forth. It seems to help, they all sway in unison. What kind of things must the human be experiencing if it’s making them react like this?

The human whimpers.

It’s almost drowned out by the lights, now, the only parts of it visible are the brief, shuddering motions of their tiny body, a tiny respite in the blazing light. It pulses unevenly. Its fingers are swallowed by the shine from the ground, hands barely there. It whines again, a high pitch that penetrates into his head and lodges in some soft part, burrowing like a mouse into its den.

The lights flare up so brilliantly it staggers him, throwing energy in front of his face to shield it from the light, the others racing to shield his reality from the rest of it. A moment later it dims slightly, enough for him to blink a few times before looking back at the circle.

The circle is now a sphere, the lights from inside the circle having thrown themselves upwards, arcing over the stone to form a golden ball, twinkling against the green wetland. It isn’t solid; through the small gaps in between the lights he can still make out the threads on the other side, still holding tightly, and if he peers towards the center, he can still see the human.

The human made a shield…it is…defending?

Roman’s heart clenches as he looks closer. It’s not a shield, the formation is wrong. The human is defending, yes, but not itself. It’s made a _cage._

His suspicion is right. Upon closer inspection, the lights protrude slightly inwards along the inside of the sphere, creating a cruelly jagged interior. This isn’t designed to keep out an enemy, it’s designed to keep the human contained.

The human is defending _him…_ from itself.

Then he hears it.

The sobs punch through, ripping the still place to shreds, yanking the air back and forth violently, echoing around and around the circle. The rawness of it never wavers, the wave keeps building and building, an open wound, never yielding for a single moment. Every hitch, every crack lands like a solid weight, threatening to collapse the circle deep into the earth. It’s the cry of a child, the _last_ child, a terrified, angry, _desperate_ child, coming out like an uproar from its throat. It’s more than crying, it’s the kind of desolate sobbing that comes from a patient sadness, one without hope.

It’s _pain._

It twists, ripping its way through layers and layers of carefully crafted defenses, a wave of anger wrapping around internal organs and knotting them together, a fear sending stabs and shakes throughout limbs, an ache yanking a still-beating heart into the bitterly frigid air.

Roman’s threads are itching before he fully realizes what’s happening, desperate for something, _anything_ to do to make it _stop._ It hurts, the human hurts, and he can’t do anything. There is no enemy he can fight, no words he can say, nothing.

He hovers there, helpless, as the human shatters.

Whatever he thought before about pain, about hiding it, about its weight, is wrong. There’s so _much,_ so much he wishes to say, to do, to…how does it have so _much?_

And how did he not sense it?

He had felt pain before, through mortals, knew of their capacity to _feel…_ but not like this. He knew that they could hide it, but not like this. His kind was not meant to feel pain, to hold it, to carry it with them, to hold it still, so still, wrapped in their bodies.

Humans…this little human can.

The lights glimmer in their sphere, slow currents wrapping orbits around the orb, carried along by the tides of the sounds waves.

They pause.

With a _whoosh,_ they fall back to the ground, retreating slowly back along the grooves to the center.

The human lies curled up, limbs thrown haphazardly over itself, drawn and clutched tight around its body. It doesn’t move for long, baited seconds, drawing shuddering breath after breath. Every now and then they hitch and his heart jumps with them, hands clenched.

Then it draws a longer breath and holds it, letting it out slowly over eight counts.

It shifts.

Roman breathes a sigh of relief as it slumps, the buzzing slowly fading. Unconsciously, the threads wrap themselves tightly around the plinth, turning it into something softer, something more delicate, that cradles the little human as it sleeps.

It hurts still, lingering in some ache that Roman can’t scratch, until he realizes it’s his _own. He_ is in pain, just from bearing witness to how much pain his little human has held. If this…if just this is enough to make him want to purge it from his reality, he cannot conceive of how much this poor little thing must hurt.

Not again. Never again. This little thing will not hurt and will not be hurt ever again.

It’s been so long…so long since Roman kept a human, kept _anything._ He’s got to figure it out…well, let’s start simple.

Holding his power at bay, he leans closer, examines the little mortal and concentrates, starts to pull and shape the ether until he has another body, another little form, standing next to the little human on the plinth. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, he stares down at the human’s sleeping face from a very similar pair of eyes.

He runs a hand—hand? Is that the right word?—over himself, checking that everything’s right. It’s not a completely… _un_ comfortable existence, but there are a few things he wonders about. Perhaps he can ask…later.

For now, he crouches down next to the human—not so little anymore, now that they’re the same size—and reaches out to run his hand over their cheek. Oh…oh, it’s damp. There’s liquid leaking from their eyes. Right, they’d been crying.

“You poor thing,” Roman murmurs, his voice sounding a little strange coming out of a human mouth, so he alters it, softens it, makes it easier to hear, “poor…poor thing, little thing, little one, sweet thing, soft thing…”

They’re so _soft,_ so soft, under his hand. He falls into a rhythm of stroking their cheek, running his fingers through their hair, reaching down to lightly squeeze their own hand in his. As he does so, that ache in his chest slowly fades, replaced by another, warmer one, another beast that almost purrs in contentment as the human turns their head towards him in their sleep, letting him scratch his fingers across their scalp.

“I’ll look after you, little human,” he promises, his threads already getting to work, “I’ll look after you.”

* * *

His eyes blink open.

Hadn’t…hadn’t he been falling? Why…why is he lying on something soft? Is—is he hallucinating? Is this another trick? What’s going on?

He moves slowly, carefully, trying not to alert anything else to his presence, only to realize he’s—

He’s in a _bed._

He paws at the soft comforter in disbelief, how…he’s been tucked in and everything. And this isn’t a _small_ bed, it’s _massive._ The pillow behind his head is easily the size of his torso and so _soft…_

Part of him wants to nuzzle back into the comforter, into the soft pillow, fall asleep and never wake again.

Part of him wants to know what’s going on.

As he gets out of the bed, his feet come to rest on the floor and he winces, bracing for a creak or something to give him away. But no. In fact, he’s barely louder than a whisper as he creeps his way to the door, opening it and slipping through.

It’s…a garden?

Well, not so much a garden as it is one single grove of trees, a small bench in the middle. He glances behind him and blinks. The room he came from _definitely_ had four walls, and yet as he looks, he can only see the doorframe, floating in the middle of golden light. There is not sky, no ground other than a soft dusting of grass and petals that have drifted down from a tree next to the bench. What is going _on?_

He remembers falling. He remembers being so tired, so worn, closing his eyes and letting himself fall.

He remembers being…caught? He remembers something winding around him, something that cradled him, not bound him. He remembers something pulling him somewhere else, through the swirling mist.

He remembers being laid on something soft. He remembers a hand stroking his cheek. He remembers a voice, a low voice, saying it would look after him.

“Oh. You’re awake?”

_That_ voice. He whirls around to see—another human? A figure, at any rate, standing next to the doorframe. The figure tilts his head, walking forward, only to stop when he flinches backward.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he promises in that same low voice, “I didn’t know you’d be awake so quick.”

“What do you want?” He winces when his voice sounds absolutely _wrecked._

“Want? Nothing, at least not right now.” The figure reaches for him. “You look scared.”

“I—“ he gulps— “I _am,_ please don’t touch me.”

The figure blinks. “Don’t mortals need physical contact to be reassured?”

_Oh no, not another one._

“Oh,” the figure murmurs when he stumbles even further away, “oh dear, no, little one, it’s alright, I won’t touch you.”

“S-stay away,” he gasps, “please, don’t—don’t hurt me, stay _back._ ”

“I’m not going to hurt you, little one, I promise, I’ll stay back here, just—just calm down, please.”

Something in the figure’s voice gives him pause. He keeps his arms up, ready to defend himself, but it…the way the figure’s looking at him…

“…you won’t hurt me?”

The figure shakes his head emphatically. “Never, little one, I’d never hurt you, you’ve—you’ve been hurt enough already.”

“W-what?”

“When you fell,” the figure says softly, his fingers still twitching, “I—I could _feel_ your pain, everything, I could _feel_ it, and I’m so, so, _sorry_ that this happened to you, oh, little one, _no one_ should have to hurt like that…”

His eyes widen when the figure starts to weep. He… _his_ pain is enough to make…whatever this is cry for him?

“What _happened,_ ” the figure says in a strangled whisper, “who hurt you, little one?”

And suddenly the whole sorry story is spilling out of him, about the summoning, about the experiments, the torture, the escape. The figure sobs with him as he tightens his arms around himself, trying to stop the phantom pain from sending him to his knees.

“You mean to tell me—“ the figure gulps in a breath— “that one of _my kind_ did that to you?”

He flinches slightly at the mention of ‘my kind’ but as he looks at the distraught expression on the figure’s face, something warm burrows its way into his chest and flutters.

“I’m so sorry, little one,” the figure mumbles, oblivious to his dilemma, “I—I would destroy them if it didn’t mean leaving you alone.”

“…you don’t want to leave me alone?”

The figure tilts his head. “No, little one, I don’t. I want to look after you, I want to keep you safe so you _never have to go through that again._ ”

Oh.

_Oh._

_Oh, no._

He’s…he’s serious. He wants to look after—he wants to—

“You want to…protect me?”

The figure nods, reaching out for him again. This time, he lets the figure take a step closer.

“You have been so strong,” the figure mumbles, “so strong, little one, and you’re hurting so much because of it, I want to help you.”

“…but why?”

“You _hurt,_ ” the figure emphasizes, “and if—if _I_ hurt at just the _memory_ of your hurt, then I—you must hurt _so much._ ”

Despite everything, a spark of hope begins to bloom in his chest. He edges a step closer, trying to deny the way the spark flares brighter at the encouraging smile he gets.

“Isn’t that…” He swallows around the lump in his throat. “…isn’t that weakness?”

The figure’s mouth drops open, his hand clenching into a fist. “ _No,_ little one, it isn’t a weakness. Feeling—the ability to—a _heart_ is not a weakness, little one.”

“…it isn’t?”

“No, little one, listen to me, you—“

The figure takes a breath and the certainty in his eyes blazes.

“You are not weak,” he says firmly, “you are gifted with the ability of heightened intuition. You do not have anything to be ashamed of, it is a reminder that you have the gift of empathy. Not many beings possess this rare trait because it takes a special kind of being to be genuinely compassionate.”

He pauses, taking another tiny step closer, his eyes pleading.

“Your kindness is not your weakness,” he whispers, “it is your strength. Own who you are. You have a beautiful, brave soul.”

He _can’t._

The figure lets out a wounded noise as he collapses, racing to his side and catching in arms that are impossibly warm, pulling him into a lap that wraps around him and holds him close, murmuring words in that wonderful, _wonderful_ voice that makes him feel like the air itself is trying to calm him down.

“I have you, brave one, I have you,” the figure whispers, “you stay right here with me. Won’t you stay, brave one, and let me protect you?”

He wants to. Oh, he _aches_ to.

“…can I stay?”

“Of course,” comes the instant reply, “of course you can, brave one, I would be so happy if you stayed.”

“Y-you would?”

The figure smiles ruefully as he pulls back just enough so they can see each other’s faces. “Would you believe me if I said I got lonely every now and then?”

Millennia, alone in the darkness…he can’t imagine.

The figure lets out a soft gasp of surprise when he tightens his grip. “Does that make you upset, brave one? Thinking of me alone?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, brave one, you’re so _strong,_ ” the figure murmurs, running one hand through his hair, “I can’t imagine how much it must be to _feel._ All the time.”

“It’s tiring,” he manages to slur out. Speaking of which…

“I’m sure.” The hand in his hair is doing _wonders._ “Will you tell me your name, brave one, so I know what to call you?”

Somewhere in his sleep-fogged brain, he thinks he remembers something about not giving your name out to creatures who ask for it.

“That’s the fair folk, brave one,” the figure says gently, “but also a good practice. Here, if you like, I will give you mine first, and then you can decide, hmm?”

“Okay.”

“My…well, my name isn’t something that mortal tongues can pronounce, I don’t think, but you can call me Roman.”

Roman. Roman. That’s easy enough.

He raises his head just a little, if only to let it flop onto Roman’s shoulder.

“Patton.”

“Patton?” He nods. “That’s a lovely name, brave one, thank you for telling me.”

Patton should say something, thank Roman in return, say he’s thankful for the protection Roman is giving him, something, but oh, Roman is warm, Roman is soft, and he’s so, so, _tired._

“…sleep.”

“You need to sleep, Patton?” Patton nods clumsily into Roman’s neck. “Do you want me to take you back to the bed? Those—those are good for sleep, aren’t they?”

He doesn’t really remember being lifted up and carried. He remembers being laid down in something soft again, something warm, but not as warm as Roman.

He doesn’t remember being tucked in, the soft comforter around him again. He remembers a warm voice promising something.

He doesn’t remember asking Roman to stay, reaching out clumsily for him as he pulls away.

He remembers another body tucked up next to him, wrapping around him gently, as the darkness takes him again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thefingergunsgirl request: hey! It seems like requests were open(if not i apologize) but i was wondering if we could get a follow up to embrace the darkness, i love that fic and idk thought it would be cool to see Roman helping patton heal, i love their dynamic. You (obviously) don't have to, I love your work!!
> 
> Thanks for the prompt, babe!

Warm. Warm, it’s so warm. Patton turns his face further into his pillow, humming softly, absentmindedly rubbing his nose against the fabric. The smell of cool mist…is that what that is? Did he leave his window open? No cold breeze whispers over his cheek, perhaps it’s just the last of the water clinging to his coat. It had been raining. But no cool tingles down his spine this morning, no, it’s just so, _so_ warm.

Patton hums again, rubbing his cheek against his pillow as he pulls his blanket closer. The blanket feels nice and heavy, holding him gently in place, his eyes don’t want to open. He’s not exactly encouraged to open them, not with this warmth holding him so nicely.

He _must_ be very tired because it kind of…seems like his pillow is holding him back? His heart races at the thought, just at the little bit of movement he gets as it shifts under his head, reaching out to clutch tighter. His pillow rumbles.

Wait, what?

Patton blinks. Oh…oh, right.

“Brave one,” comes the gentle voice from above him, “brave one, is everything alright?”

Patton shifts. Now that he’s awake, he can feel the arms around him, the unmistakable warmth he’s pressed up against, and the soft puffs of breath against the crown of his head. A different kind of warmth settles in the pit of his stomach.

“Patton?”

“…here,” Patton mumbles, not wanting the tranquil air to be upset by something, anything, “I’m here.”

But it doesn’t change. Roman doesn’t ask him anything, doesn’t prompt him for answers to the question he asked. Instead, the arm over Patton’s waist moves, tucking him a little snugger against the broad chest, inviting him to curl up, just _rest…_

“How long,” Patton manages, his eyes still heavy, “how long have I been asleep?”

Roman sighs. “I…mortal conceptions of time are difficult for me,” he confesses, “so I truly do not know how _you_ would measure time, brave one.”

“Has it…has it been more than when you…first found me?”

“When you hadn’t woken up yet?” Patton nods. “No, it has not been that long.”

_Okay._

“You can go back to sleep, Patton,” Roman murmurs, his other hand coming up to cradle Patton’s head, “if you want to.”

“…I should eat something,” Patton says through a lead tongue, “I…I should.”

“Alright. Does that mean we need to get up?”

“You don’t have to get up if you don’t want.”

“I don’t really sleep,” Roman says gently—how is _everything he does so soft—_ “and I haven’t—there isn’t much else here in this little bubble yet.”

_Oh._

“C-can I eat something?”

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean—“ Roman’s thumb strokes over Patton’s temple—“I didn’t mean you need my permission to eat, Patton, I just meant this place is awfully new and I’ve not taken care of a mortal in so long.”

Patton nods, pushing himself up on his hands. He yawns, jaw cracking, as Roman sits up beside him in this stupidly huge bed. Oh, but it’s so _warm_ here…and it would be so easy to just lie back down and not _move…_

Roman’s hand settles on his lower back and he’s sure Roman’s saying something, probably asking if he’s alright or what he wants to eat or something equally as concerned but everything is chased from Patton’s head the instant that hand lands at the base of his spine, drawing little patterns and being so, _so warm._

A deep chuckle comes from beside him and Patton hums sleepily, turning almost unconsciously to lean his head against Roman’s shoulder. Roman’s head rests on top, that hand still at the base of his spine.

“Still want something to eat?” He chuckles again when Patton barely mumbles. “Come on, brave one, if you give me an answer I can get to work.”

“One more minute.”

“I don’t know how long that is, brave one.”

Patton mumbles again, pulling himself away from the warmth and scrubbing his hands over his face. It wakes him up, just a little. “Right. Um, can I have a clock in here then?”

“Of course. What kind would you like?”

“…have you seen mortal clocks before,” he asks hesitantly, only for the fist in his chest to unclench as Roman nods, “can I have one of those?”

“Close your eyes for me.” There’s a subtle warping sound, kind of like a bunch of sticky threads being pulled at once. “How about that?”

Patton looks. There’s a very simple clock hanging on the wall. And somehow just that…just that small act of kindness is enough to make Patton’s sleepy eyes well up with tears.

“Oh, oh, brave one, do you not like it?” Roman’s hands flit anxiously around him. “I can—I can fix it—“

“N-no, it’s—it’s fine, I just—I jus’— _“_

_“Shh,_ it’s…just breathe, brave one,” Roman hushes, still wary of touching him but Patton wants to be _grounded_ and he’s so _cold_ and it’s so _much and—_

“This is so stupid,” Patton mumbles through the sobs, “so stupid, so stupid, so stupid—“

“You’re not being stupid,” Roman gentles, “you’re just crying, it’s okay, come on, now, may I…can I touch you?”

Patton doesn’t quite throw himself into Roman’s arms, he’s too sleepy for that, but Roman definitely has to move a little to catch him. It takes way too long for Patton’s liking for everything to _stop yelling at him to cry,_ nestled back in Roman’s arms as his head grows heavier and heavier.

“I…I don’t understand human emotion,” Roman murmurs very softly when Patton lets out a sigh and slumps, “but I…was it the clock?”

Right. That happened over a _clock._

“No,” Patton manages, “not really. I—I just…it was really nice of you.”

“To…give you what you asked for?” Roman turns his head to look at him. “I will always give you what you ask for, brave one, you just have to ask.”

“You’re gonna make me cry again.”

“Is—is that bad?” Roman moves back a little as if burned. “Am I hurting you?”

“N-no, humans—mortals—whatever we are to you—“

“Humans, perhaps.”

“ _Humans_ are, um, supposed to cry when we feel a lot,” Patton manages, smiling when Roman’s touch no longer grows wary, “it’s…it’s healthy.”

“…so you are crying because you…feel a lot right now?”

“Yeah.”

“Is it a good feeling?”

“…can I have something to eat first?”

“Right, of course you can.” Roman gets out of the bed, Patton shrinking slightly from the loss of warmth. “Would you—I want to make sure you have all the things you need. Other—I have heard that humans like having a separate room to keep their food, would you like one of those?”

“A kitchen?”

Roman tilts his head. “Is that what they’re called?”

“Mhm.”

“And what normally is in a kitchen?”

Patton did not think he’d ever be describing a kitchen to an eldritch being so he could make him one, but a few minutes and some threads later, Patton walks through a door into a kitchen with Roman behind him, anxiously making sure he got it right.

  
“It looks great,” Patton says, a little breathless, “I, uh, do you want something?”

“I don’t need to eat like you,” Roman says, hovering by the counter island as Patton starts making a basic sandwich, “but I will stay here if you would like?”

“Please,” Patton blurts before he can stop himself, “please stay.”

Roman smiles and sits. On the counter.

Sure.

Patton eats slowly, hardly tasting the sandwich as he eats. When it sits in his stomach and he’s placed the plate in the dishwasher, he leans against the counter next to Roman.

He’s _out._

This is _real._

He’s _safe._

“Little one,” Roman calls softly, worried when Patton’s hand starts to tremble, “little one, are you—“

“Just—just give me a moment.”

Roman hushes. Patton takes a few deep breaths, feeling the air make its way into his lungs, not strained, not restricted, _free._

“…this is real,” he whispers, “right?”

“It’s real.”

“…you won’t hurt me?”

“Never.” Roman lifts his hand, slowly, slowly, and Patton nods, letting Roman’s warm fingers card through his hair. “I will protect you, little one, always.”

“…thank you.”

“Of course.” Roman watches as Patton takes a few more breaths. “Little one, can I ask my question again?”

“About crying?”

Roman nods. “And what made you cry before. Was it a good feeling?”

“It’s not that simple.” Patton huffs a laugh. “I _wish_ it were.”

“As we established, I…don’t have any worries about time,” Roman prompts when he hesitates, “you may take as long as you like.”

Right. As long as he likes to explain emotions to an eldritch being.

“Um,” Patton says eloquently, pinching the bridge of his nose, “what…what do you know already?”

“I know that humans have emotions,” Roman says, “that you…feel things a lot of the time and that the feelings of others can affect your own.”

The hand in Patton’s hair gently touches his cheek.

“And that when they are overwhelming, it makes you cry.”

Patton nods, trying not to let the words on his tongue slip away into that warm touch. “Overwhelming doesn’t mean bad. Emotions aren’t really…they’re not really good _or_ bad, they just…they just kind of…happen.”

“But isn’t that painful,” Roman asks, “to… _feel_ so strongly all the time? Doesn’t that…hurt?”

“…kind of?” Patton shakes his head slowly. “It’s not…it’s not so much of an…it’s not a question about opposites, not really.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“It’s not your fault,” Patton mumbles, leaning unconsciously into Roman’s touch, “I’m not explaining it the best right now.”

“Do you want to rest and wait for later?”

“No, I should do it now.” He sighs and pulls back a little. “Emotions kind of work on a scale of not very intense to very intense. The different emotions themselves aren’t opposites, they’re just different…colors.”

“Colors?”

“I’m trying,” Patton says helplessly, “I _am._ ”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Roman soothes quickly, “I’m just trying to understand.”

“I know, I know, I’m being stupid, I just—“ Patton buries his face in his hands. Why is this so _hard?_

“You’ve just…you have just stopped feeling a lot of pain for the first time in a while—“ _did he say that out loud—of course he did—_ “and I am sure that…adjusting is difficult.”

“I’m sorry,” Patton mumbles, rubbing his eyes, “this isn’t very fair to you.”

“Do not worry about me, little one, I will be fine.”

_Colors. Right._ “Can you—you know what colors are,” he asks weakly, “right?”

Roman reaches into some cabinet and Patton hears the threads getting to work. When he pulls his hand out, there’s an orb floating just above his palm. A three-dimensional version of a color wheel Patton recognizes from one of the art posters.

“Out here,” Patton says, pointing to the edge of the wheel where the colors are the most vibrant, “is where the intense emotion is. It’s…it’s really strong and it’s pretty easy to get from one color to another.”

“It is easy to flip from one strong emotion to another strong emotion?”

“Yeah. Um, the _opposite, in this case,_ is in the middle, where it’s white.” Patton points. “It’s when you don’t really have any strong emotions.”

“And when you are out here,” Roman says, pointing to the outer layer, “you…cry?”

“…yeah.”

Roman nods thoughtfully, setting the orb down. Patton watches it spin over the counter.

“Would you like to keep it?”

“…can I?”

In response, Roman rolls it toward him. Picking it up, Patton turns it over in his hand, watching the colors glint and shift in the light. It feels slightly cool to the touch, just this side of intangible. Roman watches him with a smile.

“How can I help you, Patton,” he asks quietly, “when you are feeling strong emotions? I don’t understand the…the task, am I supposed to help you get them out? Keep them in?”

“You’re not supposed to keep them in,” Patton says quickly, “that’s…that’s unhealthy.”

“You are supposed to stay like that?”

“After you—emotions aren’t permanent,” Patton says, “after you feel them, they normally balance themselves out.”

“And how long does that take?” At Patton’s helpless smile, Roman’s shoulders slump and he smiles sadly. “You don’t know, do you?”

Patton shakes his head. “I’ve never…this is…I’m not feeling everything right now from—I’m not feeling everything right now, but—“

“You—“

Patton’s heart clenches when Roman’s eyes go wide.

“There is _more?”_

“Humans aren’t built to process everything at once,” Patton whispers, “we can’t. We physically can’t. We have to—our brains put it behind walls until we’re safe enough to process it slowly.”

Roman’s own eyes begin to water, even if he doesn’t realize it. “But you—there is already so much pain, how can you—how can you have _more?”_

“It’s okay,” Patton says quickly, rushing to make Roman stop crying, “it’s okay, it’s—“

“It’s _not,_ ” Roman says softly, his voice still interrupting Patton’s ramblings, “you’re not okay, brave one.”

He’s…he’s not okay. Roman’s right. He’s not okay. And that…

Patton lets out a small cry, quickly hushed by Roman as he leans forward.

“You’re…you’ve got to start healing, brave one,” Roman murmurs, “right? That’s what you said, you have—you’ve got to feel safe enough so that you can.”

“…yeah,” Patton manages, “I…I gotta…”

“What can I do to make you feel safe,” Roman asks, “how can I help?”

“You’re doing a lot of it already,” Patton mumbles, “I, uh, I…this is embarrassing.”

“I will not shame or judge you for anything,” Roman vows, sitting up a little more, “when it comes to…strange things, I daresay I have seen more than you ever will, Patton.”

And even through everything that’s hit him in the past—like, ten minutes—that’s enough to make him laugh. Because, really, he’s worried about being embarrassed in front of an eldritch being.

“I like being touched,” Patton confesses, unable to stop two bright spots appearing on his cheeks, “it, um, helps me calm down?”

“I noticed that,” Roman nods, reaching out with one hand, “when you first came. I…may I?”

Patton tucks himself gratefully back into Roman’s arms, bathing in the warmth. Roman hums, one of his arms winding tightly around Patton, the other tucking his face into the crook of his neck. It’s warm. It’s so _warm._

“Is this how you like it,” Roman murmurs into his ear, “this kind of touch?”

Patton nods. “Can you…a little tighter?”

Roman’s grip tightens and the rush of _warmsoftsafe_ coaxes a soft gasp out of Patton’s chest.

  
“Like that, little one?”

Roman’s only answer is a shuddering breath.

“You’re very soft, sweet thing,” Roman’s voice rumbles in his ears, “so soft, so lovely…may I…may I explore, sweet thing?”

The question rouses a part of Patton’s tired brain. “…explore?”

“I have heard that humans like having certain parts of them touched, it can help you calm down,” comes his answer, “I would like to find them. And you…I must confess I don’t know how much I can help myself, you’re very nice to touch.”

_“You humans,” the being muses as it runs an icy cold finger over his cheek, “so…squishy. And soft. You’re absolutely covered in this squishy soft stuff…I wonder how it would feel on my own bones…”_

Patton flinches, ripping himself away. Roman lets out his own cry of dismay, hovering anxiously as he slides off the counter to hover over him protectively as he cowers on the floor.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, little one, I won’t, I didn’t mean to say something wrong, you’re safe, you’re safe—“

_He’s safe. He’s safe. Roman won’t hurt him. He’s safe._

“R-roman?”

“Yes, sweet thing, I’m right here—“

“Can you hold my hand?”

Roman is warm. Roman is steady. Roman is safe. Roman is here.

Patton is safe.

“I’m so sorry, little one,” Roman whispers when Patton can finally look up again, “I did not think about what that would sound like to you. You have my word I will not touch you unless you ask for it or tell me explicitly.”

Patton swallows through a dry throat. “Thank you.”

Roman glances over his shoulder. “Why don’t you tell me what else you need? To be comfortable here?”

That warm hand pulls him to his feet and they begin. After a while, Patton has a wonderful bathroom, a bookshelf, and a decent wardrobe. Roman nods when he asks for a little alone time, saying he needs to process and feel a bit on his own.

“I will be outside when you would like me again.”

Roman closes the door.

* * *

Roman opens and closes his hands a few times, just looking at them. They’re quite interesting things, aren’t they? He looks out at the stretching air in front of him, at the faint pink and blue color that tinges the space just beyond the little floating island he’s made. It’s very pretty if he does say so himself, and the hope that it helps his little one start to heal fills his chest.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been for Patton since he stepped back inside, but it hasn’t been nearly long enough for _him_ to grow anxious. Roman shifts a little on the bench, watching the leaves blow in the gentle breeze. He closes his eyes and checks the rest of his realm, making sure everything is safe.

Tug on this thread, check that little tangle, make sure this form is still sustainable.

When he opens his eyes again, there’s a smile on his face.

He hears the door creak open behind him and Patton emerges, dressed in one of the soft things he requested. He smiles, stands, and holds out an arm.

“Where’re we going,” Patton asks, “are we—are we going somewhere?”

“Just to the bench.” Roman eases them down onto it. “May I keep touching you?”

Patton nods. Roman’s hand lingers on Patton’s arm, stroking absentmindedly. Then he looks down at Patton’s hand.

Patton’s hand looks very similar to Roman’s. Perhaps it is because Roman modeled this form after this little human, but it looks…it looks a little different.

With the hand on Patton’s arm, Roman closes his eyes and thinks, feeling his threads wave a little back and forth.

He sees that hand extended to others, offering help, assistance, reassurance. He sees that hand holding others, squeezing, supporting. He sees that hand wrapped around Patton’s own legs, tucked up, still offering protection, even in its meager form.

Just that is enough to spring tears to his eyes. This form…this form, even the incomplete one that it is, just this paper-thin image is enough to make his own feelings well up.

“You’re so strong,brave one,” he murmurs, “so strong.”

Patton shifts. “What makes you say that?”

Roman tells him, watching in confusion as Patton’s face falls.

“I’m sorry, I can help, I’m not—I’m not the best at explaining things but I can help you figure it out—“

“Why do you do that,” Roman asks softly, “little one, why?”

“Do what?”

“Offer help when you yourself are the one who needs it?”

Patton’s face goes a little pale. “What…what do you mean?”

“I have noticed that you tend to…offer assistance over everything,” Roman murmurs, “that your first choice is to help others and not to receive it.”

Patton shrugs. “…so?”

“But _you_ are the one who needs the most help,” Roman pushes, “you—this is _your_ pain, you are upset.”

“Just because I have pain doesn’t mean you don’t!”

“That may be true, but that does not erase the fact that _you_ need help.” Roman cups Patton’s elbow gently. “I am not in distress. I am not feeling the way you are. I am older than you know and I know what I can do for myself. What I do not know is what to do for _you._ ”

Patton’s mouth opens and closes. Then he turns away, looking out. Roman watches his jaw working.

“You are struggling,” Roman murmurs, “because you have been through so much but also because you have never…I imagine it is difficult for you to let yourself be taken care of.”

Tears run down Patton’s face and it takes everything in him to wait. Wait for Patton to say it’s okay.

“…it’s always worked before,” comes the strangled whisper, “I don’t—I don’t know what to do without it.”

“We can figure it out together,” Roman offers, “we have more time than you could ever ask for.”

“…I don’t know what I’m doing, Roman.”

“I don’t really know either.”

“Please don’t leave me.”

“Never.”

“…hold me?”

Roman opens his arms immediately. “How would you like to be held?”

“Can I…can I…sit with you?”

At his nod, Patton shyly places his arms around Roman’s shoulders and makes to stand. Roman coaxes him carefully onto his lap, pulling him into place and holding him as securely as he can. As Patton buries his face in his shoulder, Roman hums gently.

“If you are already hurt,” Roman whispers, “you can let yourself feel better first.”

Patton shifts. “But…but if I _can_ help—“

“Just because you can doesn’t mean you should,” he corrects gently, “especially if you are already hurt.”

The following silence says he doesn’t believe him. Roman thinks.

“If your leg was broken,” he says finally, “would you be getting up to help other people walk?”

Patton mumbles something that sounds like ‘maybe.’

“But _should_ you?”

“…no.”

Roman squeezes gently. “Then this should be no different. You are in pain—you _are,_ sweet thing, I can feel it—and therefore you should let yourself come first.”

Adoration and concern nip at each other in Roman’s chest as Patton finally relaxes a little more into his hold, nuzzling into his shoulder and growing still atop him. A strange impulse wells up inside as the curve of Patton’s neck rests against Roman’s face. Without thinking, he parts his lips and presses them to the warm skin.

The second he does so, he winces.

“I should have asked,” he whispers, “I’m sorry.”

“…’s okay.”

“…may I do it again?”

“What? Kiss me?” Roman nods. “…yeah.”

Roman does, kissing Patton’s neck gently and smiling a little when a shudder wriggles through his body. He cuddles his brave one closer and makes sure he feels _warm, safe._

“Can we stay like this?”

“For as long as you like, brave one,” Roman murmurs, “we have as much time as you need.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please continue to yell at me on tumblr ^_^

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come yell at me on tumblr
> 
> https://a-small-batch-of-dragons.tumblr.com/


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